Precipitation
by Lord Cellytron
Summary: The rain hasn't stopped in three days, and the lights going out in the middle of surgery is just the beginning. Yes, it has slash! HB, CK


Disclaimer: I don't own M*A*S*H, any of the characters (not even the nameless nurses I use in this story), locations, property, or anything really at all. I also don't own the rain.  
  
Pairings: C/K, H/B. Any other pairings that may potentially appear in this fic are unintentional.   
  
A/N: Very, very long fic I wrote over the course of a few weeks. Originally posted in the M*A*S*H Slash Yahoo! group in 9 parts. I was inspired almost solely by the song "Citizen Erased" by Muse, which truly is the best song of all time.   
  
R+R, if you please!  
  
***  
  
Rain is a funny thing, Mom.  
  
Back home, rain is seen as a life-giving product of God's good graces.   
  
Rain, as all children know, makes flowers grow. Rain makes the grass green and brings a smile to the face of the neighbor who loves his lawn more than his wife, children and career. It pours from the sky in a heavenly wave and even when lightning strikes, lovers all over the country take the torrential downpour as their cue to snuggle even closer to each other in their warm beds.   
  
(Parker said that, Mom. I thought it was awful pretty. Remember I told you about Parker?)  
  
Rain signals the end of the bitter cold winter, and brings tiny leaf sprouts to the shady summer trees that make up a young man's memories. The worst thing rain can do to a carefree Stateside person is cancel their picnic or ruin their daughter's birthday party.   
  
(Remember, Mom, how you set up that big old party for Patty's sweet 16 and it rained all weekend? I never laughed so hard in my life. She's not really gonna marry that Davidson fellow, is she? Gosh, I wish I could be there.)  
  
We're told to come in out of the rain, but if we don't, what's the worst that can happen? We'll track mud all over the nice clean carpet and ruin our sunday best. Don't wear your suede shoes out in the rain, don't track through puddles and always take your umbrella.   
  
(You'll catch your death of cold. You'll get hit by lightning.)   
  
But we still laugh and splash through puddles. We still stand with our faces tilted upward and catch raindrops in our mouths. We still run through the sprinkler in the middle of a thunderstorm. And at the end of the day, we hang our wet clothes up over the shower curtain, change into our nice warm pajamas and listen to the thunder.   
  
Count the seconds after a bolt of lightning, that tells you how far away the storm is. That's how simple rain is back home. Can you believe it, that we actually had the luxury of wondering how far away the storm is. The further away the storm got, the closer the rain was to stopping, remember? Oh, sure you do.   
  
I don't think the rain here's ever gonna stop. There's hardly half a second between the flash of lightning and the roar of thunder... and it's been that way for 3 days.   
  
We haven't been dry in 3 days, Mom.   
  
Thanks for the brownies you sent... they got awful wet, but I ate them anyway. Parker took about half of them, though. He sure wishes his mom could cook so good, but she only sends him a letter every so often and sure never any brownies. Maybe next time you could make extra, gosh, I'd sure appreciate it.   
  
Give my love to Dad, Patty and Joshy, and make sure that you tell Mary Anne that I wrote you. I'd say something mushy but I'd be awful embarrassed if you were to read it.. so just tell her I like her a lot. Oh gee, that sounds dumb.  
  
Love,  
  
Hawkeye lowered his eyes somberly and re-folded the damp and badly smudged piece of paper he'd so tenderly read to himself after finding it in the middle of the floor in Pre-Op, trampled and nearly illegible from negligent and unwitting abuse.   
  
"Hey, Hawk, we got more wounded outside. An ambulence drove off the road." The calm yet unmistakably urgent voice of BJ Hunnicutt ripped through his somber reverie.   
  
"No kidding, some accidental casualties this time?" Hawkeye sighed, dropping the piece of paper in his haste to get outside.   
  
"Take your pick. We've got some from the war and some from the war AND the ambulence roll-over." BJ replied.  
  
"Have I ever mentioned how much I love rainstorms? They help remind me that not every near-fatal injury is caused by a gun or landmine."   
  
"Variety is the spice of life. Ready?" BJ asked, his hand on the door of the office. He felt a certain pressure on the other side of it and he put his arm up to shield himself from what was to come.  
  
"Give it your worst." Hawkeye said bravely.   
  
Pushing open the door, the two men ducked a bit and nature did indeed give it her worst. A blast of razor-sharp rain shot at them as they ran through mud so wet and slippery it was impossible to believe it had ever been anything but a slippery marsh.   
  
Visibility was very low in the midnight downpour, and even though the damaged ambulence had its' lights on, they barely saw it until they were right on top of it. A tall, lanky sergeant was leaning weakly against the hood and he blinked through the rain, coughing violently.   
  
"How many?" Hawkeye yelled to the sergeant, who barely seemed to know where he was, much less what Hawkeye was talking about.  
  
"How many what?" He called back, his voice cracking.  
  
"Wounded! How many wounded?"   
  
"Oh... jeez, I don't know...." The sergeant said weakly, his face growing pale.   
  
"He's in shock. Nurse, I need a stretcher!" BJ yelled to a woman several feet away.   
  
"Let's get around to the back. If that was the driver, I can't wait to see the passengers." Hawkeye sighed.   
  
***  
  
Time meant nothing except when it was going too quickly. There was no such thing as too many hours on your feet, no such thing as having too much time on your hands.   
  
And in some cases, no such thing as the end.   
  
"Roof's leaking again." Potter said calmly, noticing a growing puddle on the floor.   
  
"How can you tell? I think it's drier in the middle of Lake Michigan." Hawkeye said, pulling a neat stitch taut.   
  
"Some good that canvas roof does. Why can't they come up with lightweight, portable bricks?" BJ asked with irritation as he felt a steady stream of water land on his head.   
  
"I'll do you one better, why don't they end the stupid war so we can devote our resources to coming up with a way to end rain."   
  
"Where I come from, rain was a blessing. Things don't grow without rain." Potter said matter-of-factly.  
  
"Last food I ate that was 'grown' anywhere came out of Charles' boots." Hawkeye muttered.   
  
"Ah, that explains the 'meat loaf surprise' we had two nights ago." BJ exclaimed.   
  
"Gentlemen, is this your subtle little method of trying to tell me that my hygiene is lacking in some way?" Charles asked with annoyance.   
  
"Of course not, Charles. We're all clean as a whistle right now, Korea's shower systems are working just peachy. I just wish they came with towels and a faucet." Hawkeye said.  
  
"Nothing to worry about, everyone. According to the forecast, this'll all let up in another day or two." Klinger said nonchalantly from across the room.  
  
"What forecast?" Potter asked.  
  
"Well.. actually I just asked Father Mulcahy to tell God that if it stopped raining, I'd make my bed every day for a week. It seemed like a pretty good trade-off."   
  
"You're bartering with the almighty and that's the best trade you could come up with?!" Hawkeye cried.  
  
"He has a point, Klinger. If you're going to offer to do something, why not do something easy... like coming up with a cure for cancer?" BJ added.  
  
"Come, come now Gentlemen. It's possible he has a point, after all. Has anyone actually ever seen him make his bed?" Charles asked.  
  
"Oh, ha ha. Fine, we'll see who's laughing when it stops raining." Klinger scoffed, hands on his hips.  
  
"I'll be too busy setting myself on fire to laugh. Has anyone considered that, just setting the whole camp on fire?" Hawkeye asked sincerely.  
  
"Why do you think I smoke so many cigars?" Potter asked. "Now, listen everybody, all this bellyaching isn't going to make the rain stop any faster. We've just got to take it in stride, and it'll let up before you know it."   
  
"Take it in stride, he says. I've taken so many things in stride the bottom of my shoes look like Grauman's Chinese Theatre." Hawkeye mumbled.   
  
"Colonel, not to.. lower myself to the level of Pierce and Hunnicutt's infantile prattling, but these conditions are abysmal." Charles said innocently.  
  
"You want to hear abysmal? I had to empty out my footlocker and put it in the middle of my tent to catch the rain from the roof leaking." Margaret replied coldly. "I had to put all my clothes under the bed because it's the only dry place in the entire tent!"   
  
"Ooh, thanks for telling me, Margaret!" Hawkeye exclaimed giddily. "I just hope you don't move around a lot in your sleep. Don't let my snoring wake you, and if you find any of your underwear missing, blame it on the laundry women."   
  
"You're sick. Absolutely sick." She snarled.   
  
"And you know doctors always make the worst patients."   
  
"Is that true?" Klinger asked from out of nowhere. "That doctors make the worst patients?"   
  
"Certainly. During my time spent practicing in Boston, I had the most insufferable man come in for a heart condition. It turned out he was a.." Charles stopped and self-indulgently snickered. "..A podiatrist, and he insisted on my taking my shoes off during his examination because he was certain I had some sort of fungal infection."   
  
"Thank god you didn't listen to him, or we'd have had no dinner last night!" Hawkeye said sweetly.  
  
A moment later, thunder could be heard over the monotonous click-clack of instruments, and before another word could be spoken, the tent became unfathomably dark.   
  
Cries of shock tumbled over each other in the pitch blackness, but all in vain, for a moment later the lights came back on.   
  
"Thank God..." Margaret sighed, closing her eyes in relief. Charles, who was standing right across from her, shook his head. "No need to worry, Margaret. We're finished here anyway."  
  
"Margaret's just worried that I won't be able to find my way to her tent if the power should go out, right?" Hawkeye asked, having regained his composure rather quickly.  
  
"This is the last one?" She asked, completely ignoring Hawkeye.   
  
"Yes, indeed." Charles said happily, a deep sigh escaping from his lips as a couple corpsmen took the patient into Post-Op. "I intend now to spend the remainder of this miserable evening revelling in the glory of nature from the standpoint of a jaded spectator."   
  
"Don't forget to write!" BJ said casually. Above him, the lights flickered once again.  
  
"This could be bad, I'd recommend we finito these boys on up before the lights decide to take a permanent vacation." Potter said quietly.   
  
"Vacation, I remember that word. Used to have rather nice connotations--" Hawkeye began, but suddenly his patient's leg began spurting blood at him in a rather steady stream. "Ugh! God! Shelly!" He exclaimed as his alarmed nurse took action immediately.   
  
"Just hit a geyser?" BJ asked.  
  
"Yeah, who needs a whirlwind tour of the good old US of A when you can recreate all the excitement in the comfort of your own OR."   
  
"I'm sorry, doctor. I didn't see..." Shelly sighed.   
  
"Exactly the problem. Damn!"   
  
"What is it?" Potter asked.   
  
"It looks like the Thanksgiving Day parade's decided to use shrapnel this year instead of confetti... Jeez, some of these pieces are no bigger than the tip of a pencil. This is gonna take all night."   
  
"Don't despair, son, just do the best you can." Potter said calmly.   
  
"The best I can? With the lights about to go out at any second?" Hawkeye snapped bitterly. "Damn!"   
  
As if mocking his frustration, the lights flickered several times over cries of protest from everyone in the OR.   
  
"Alright, we're going to need some temporary sources of light in here. Klinger!" Potter called.   
  
"Aye-aye, sir?"   
  
"Round up as many flashlights and what-have-you as you can."  
  
"Colonel, a couple of flashlights aren't going to do me any good when I'm working with pieces this small!" Hawkeye protested.  
  
"Pierce, they're just in case. You should only need them for a second or two."   
  
"Do you think the generator's going to hold up?"   
  
"God willing. Klinger, pronto." Potter said, making a shooing motion with his head.  
  
"You betcha, sir." Klinger said, trotting off.   
  
***  
  
Despite being fatigued, wet, ornery and ready to collapse on the floor in a fit of frustration and rage, Charles found himself standing in the scrub room much longer than he ordinarily would have.   
  
He paced around every few seconds, knowing that in time he would have to run out the door and beat feet across the slick mud to his tent, where, once inside and having slammed the door, he would stand shivering in the middle of the room and scavenge about for some slightly drier clothes than he was wearing at the moment.   
  
If only the running through the mud and the violent, stinging rain part wasn't a factor. He didn't like to admit to himself, but it was times like these that he felt his highly sophistocated mind sinking back to the days when he was a child and hated thunderstorms.   
  
Well, no one, he mused, really *liked* the damnable weather phenomena of the storm, but whether or not they hated them as much as he did, he didn't know. Nor did he intend to find out.   
  
It just seemed, to him, that even as unstable and unpredictable as the war was to begin with, nothing could possibly be less stable or predictable than a war in a rainstorm. It seemed that under the stinging cascade of the rain, even the most solid of foundations crumbled. Even the most sturdy of roofs leaked, and no amount of clothing could guard against the miserable dampness that seeped through the very air.   
  
So different from his childhood... but the fact remained constant through the years that when a rainstorm came, Charles still hated it with a passion.   
  
He jumped a bit when he heard a rustling in the curtains, and Klinger pushed through them, looking around.   
  
"Oh, hey. Major, you're still here?" he asked needlessly.  
  
"I... was just leaving..." Charles said stiffly, looking upward and flinching as he heard the roar of the rain above his head.   
  
"Doesn't matter to me, I'm just looking for something I can put on my head while I run into the storeroom to get some flashlights."   
  
"Some flashlights? The power is still running."   
  
"Oh, sure it is now, but Hawkeye's got a patient with a ton of shrapnel in his leg and just in case they go out... well, you know."   
  
"Well, I'm certainly glad I finished when I did."   
  
"I just bet you are. Excuse me, Major." Klinger said, picking up Charles' used pair of pants and holding it over his head.   
  
"Oh.. um.. Klinger? Wait just a moment..." Charles said, trotting after him.   
  
"What?"   
  
Charles hesitated a moment, and then handed Klinger his shirt. "Take this instead. Don't want people to get the wrong idea about you running around with my pants on your head."   
  
Klinger looked puzzled, and then he grinned. "Where were you when I was still looking for a section 8? A superior officer's pants on my head... what an idea!"   
  
***  
  
Each time the lights flickered now, it took longer and longer for them to come back on, and Hawkeye held his breath as his nurse fumbled with the flashlight switch until it shone a tiny, white beam of light into the leg of his patient.   
  
"Maybe from now on.. uh... you'd better just leave it on.." Hawkeye finally said with an air of defeat in his voice. It had been nearly a minute since the lights had come on, and it was just a matter of time before they stopped coming back on.  
  
Potter had finished his patient long before, but he still remained in the room to assist Hawkeye whenever he could. BJ was nearly finished, but an unspoken understanding said that he too would remain, and come Hell or high water, they would finish.  
  
When the lights came back on, a collective sigh of relief was expelled, only to then be dashed by even more flickering and another outage.   
  
"Damn it! Shine it from the other side. The OTHER side. Yeah, there." Hawkeye commanded, frustration pulsing through him.  
  
"Why aren't the backup generators working?" BJ asked.  
  
"So many questions, so few answers." Potter sighed cryptically.   
  
"Shit! Jeez!" Hawkeye exclaimed suddenly, as a piece of shrapnel struck a vein in the patient's leg and it welled up with a dark cloud of blood. "We need the damn lights on! I can't see a thing I'm doing!"   
  
Potter nodded. "Klinger!" He called.   
  
A thump could be heard from outside the OR, and then the door slowly creaked open. "Ow. You called, sir?"   
  
"Take a flashlight, get out there and get the backup generator working."   
  
"Sir, I... hate to give the impression that I don't know how to do it, but..."   
  
"It's easy as pie! Klinger, you just hook up the--" Hawkeye began, but Potter stopped him.  
  
"Find whoever you need. Just hurry it up."   
  
"Oughtn't I be terribly afraid of the pouring rain?" Klinger asked warily.  
  
"Not unless lightning strikes you." Hawkeye snapped.  
  
"I thank you for the vote of confidence, sir." Klinger sighed, and he turned around and skulked off.  
  
As the door shut, BJ looked up. "You think he's gonna be okay? It is raining pretty hard, Hawk."   
  
Hawkeye expelled a deep, shuddering breath. "You think I don't know that?!"   
  
"Hey, come on, Hawk. You just need to calm down. You've dealt with much worse than this before."   
  
"Of course I have. Much, much worse... I know that, Beej..."   
  
"Son, it looks almost to me like you won't be needing this flashlight much longer. Your face is so white it's glowing in the dark." Potter said quietly.   
  
BJ frowned and then turned to his nurse. "Close for me, will you?"   
  
"Yes, doctor."   
  
Hawkeye turned around. "Hey, what are you doing?"   
  
"I'm going out for Chinese. What kind of sauce do you like on your egg rolls?" BJ replied.   
  
"Seriously, Beej, I don't need any help."   
  
"I beg to differ. We can use all the help we can get." Potter sighed.  
  
"Colonel, you know I'm perfectly capable of doing this! It's just... so damn hard to see... to think. It's even hard to move."   
  
"Are you sick?" BJ asked.  
  
"Of course I am, didn't you hear Margaret?"   
  
"You know what I mean."   
  
"No. I'm not sick. I feel just fine... but nothing wants to work right. I swear to god, my hands are shaking. Look at them."   
  
BJ looked over Hawkeye's shoulder, and saw nothing of the sort. His hands looked just as sturdy as any he'd ever seen performing delicate surgery.   
  
"I don't see it, Hawk."   
  
"Sure, you don't. It's probably all in my head. My ears are ringing so loud I almost can't hear the rain!"   
  
"We've been three days without a speck of sunshine, maybe you've just got the good, old-fashioned flu." Potter suggested.  
  
"I'm not sick. I'm not... Beej, it's okay. I'll be along soon. Once Klinger gets those damn lights on and I start feeling alive again, I'll be done before you know it."   
  
"I think I'll stay, just in case."  
  
"What? just in case what?"   
  
"Come on... another pair of eyes can't hurt."   
  
"No, that can't hurt. But being treated like an incompetent can."   
  
"Pierce, knock it off. The rain doesn't give you an excuse to act like a jackass." Potter said with a rather cold inflection.   
  
"Well, pardon me, Colonel, if I'm a little touchy about having my work criticized."   
  
"I didn't criticize you, Hawk!"   
  
"I didn't say you criticized me! You can criticize me until the cows come home, that doesn't matter a damn bit. Cast cold oaths on my character until you're blue in the face, I don't give a damn! But for god's sake, leave the way I work alone!"   
  
"Hawk..."   
  
"I mean, I'm funny about certain things. Unlike everyone else here, apparently, it bugs me when this kid's life is in my hands and I can't even see an inch in front of my face. It kind of irks me when the army's able to build mines that send pieces of hot metal the size of a pencil eraser into a 20 year old's leg and chest, but they can't find a damn generator that's able to hold up under 3 days of rain."   
  
"No one's saying it's right, son. Hell, I don't think I've ever seen anything more wrong, on so many levels." Potter said somberly.   
  
"You're damn right, it's wrong. Oh... god.. listen to me. It's the rain. I can't tolerate it. I just can't stand it. It isn't even the fact that it's wet and cold and... and dark.. it's what the wetness and coldness and darkness imply."   
  
"What's that?" BJ inquired.  
  
"Just... that apparently, God doesn't give a damn, either. I'm used to idiot generals sending boys into a suicide run... generals aren't even human, by most peoples' standards, and no one believes in them any farther than they can throw them. But God's a different story, or at least I thought He was. But here, right now... His creation that's supposed to give life is doing more damage than anything man's got on hand. And when you combine them both... what is God thinking?!"   
  
"You ought to be asking the Padre that question." Potter mused.  
  
"Yeah, but he's at the orphanage, moving out the kids until the flooding goes down." BJ said with irony in his voice.   
  
"You see? It never ends." Hawkeye said.  
  
"And it never will."   
  
"You always know just how to cheer a guy up, Beej."   
  
"Maybe some help, then? Misery loves company." BJ pulled on a new pair of gloves.  
  
Hawkeye sighed, "Well, if you're gonna be so vehiment about it.... dig in, but try and stay out of my light."   
  
"It's all yours, my friend."  
  
***  
  
Charles turned around with surprise as the sound of the door opening interrupted his still, dark reverie. He was leaning on one arm against the wall next to the door that led from Klinger's office to the chill, soaked outdoors; had been for several minutes now. After the power had gone out the last time, he'd somehow managed to wind up in the small but oddly warm and welcoming office and thus had he resided for the last few minutes, staring out the window and regarding the downpour with his scrutinizing eyes.  
  
Through the darkness, he made out a figure coming out of the OR. He cleared his throat and put on a casual face, turning completely away from the door. He heard clicking sounds and a frightened sounding whisper before a shallow beam of light appeared on the floor and then flashed across the room and in his face.  
  
"Oh, Major! It's just you." Klinger cried.   
  
"Indeed... get that light out of my eyes."   
  
"Sorry. I heard some noise in here, and I wanted to make sure it wasn't burglars before I go fix the generator."   
  
"Burglars... Klinger, do be serious."   
  
"I am! You know those MPs, and with how dark it is..."   
  
"Yes, yes. Alright."   
  
"Say, Major.. uh... not that the fact that you're standing all alone in my pitch black office is.. well.. suspicious or anything.... but do you mind if I ask what you're doing here?"  
  
"I'm watching the rain, Klinger."   
  
"You can get a better view outside."   
  
"I hate the rain."   
  
"Your alibi is falling apart, Major. Would you mind a strip search?"   
  
Charles looked at Klinger in condescending disbelief and exhaled. "I hate BEING in the rain. I hate the misery that the rain represents. But as a natural phenomenon, it's beautiful to me. The thunder commands power, great and terrible in its majesty. The lightning is Thunder's lovely queen; luminous, powerful... with beauty that can kill you just as soon as touch you."   
  
"Sort of like Major Houlihan.." Klinger mused.   
  
"Indeed... The rain is the force that holds the kingdom all together, and it often gets the glory for its life-giving properties. It can also do the most damage... if it gets a mind to."   
  
"Huh. That sounds like Hawkeye. And BJ, too. He can really trash things if he gets a mind to it."   
  
"There is also the wind... the wind that controls the direction of the rain."   
  
"Colonel Potter... don't you think?"   
  
"Klinger..." Charles began, but something inside him stopped him from berating the young man's observations. They did have their merit, after all, and he found himself nodding. "Well... perhaps."  
  
"How about the clouds? Huh? The clouds with all their colors... and their shapes..."   
  
"The clouds, often considered the solid, heavenly home of Thunder and Lightning. Hmm. Perhaps... you are the clouds."   
  
"Me?"   
  
"Well... only the dark ones."   
  
"Oh, you are a riot, Major. How am I the clouds?"   
  
"You? Well... you're the foundation. The... very most basic foundation. And you keep things moving."  
  
"Do I, huh? I'm supposed to be outside right now, fixing the generator. Hey, Major, with all due respect, you could sure get in a lot of trouble for holding me up with all your silly rainstorm metaphors."   
  
"I can not effectively express my remorse." Charles said with exaggerated false distress in his voice.  
  
"Hey, this isn't funny. Hawkeye's doing some surgery and the lights went out. I need to hurry it up, you know?"   
  
"Then... get to it, man."   
  
Klinger sighed. "I'm scared."  
  
Charles looked at him in disbelief. "The clouds are frightened?"   
  
"No... I am..." Klinger said.   
  
Charles gritted his teeth. "Well, whatever are you afraid of?"   
  
"Well.. it's dumb. I shouldn't be, really..."   
  
"You're absolutely correct! A man's life hangs in the balance, Klinger! If Pierce needs those lights, then get to it!"   
  
"I just... I know I have to.. but I have a bad feeling."   
  
"Klinger, nonsense! It's a simple procedure, not many things can have gone wrong, after all!"   
  
"You... uh... you've never seen a generator, have you?" Klinger asked.   
  
"Don't be a coward, Klinger! Lord knows I'm... I'm coward enough for both of us right now. Now, get out there!"   
  
"Well, Major, I'm amazed! You're barking orders at me and they don't even have to do with your personal comfort and leisure!" Klinger exclaimed, clutching his flashlight.   
  
"You are right to be worried about your personal safety in a thunderstorm such as this, but it mustn't interfere with your duty as a member of this unit."   
  
"Spoken like a true officer who doesn't even wash his own socks." Klinger said, grinning.   
  
"Oh, is that the way of it, then? Very well. Klinger, I shall remain here to make sure you return in one piece." Charles said, a tone of self-righteous charity in his voice.  
  
"Whoa, my hero. Don't do me any favors, Major!" Klinger cried indignantly, flinging the door open. "I'll be back in one piece, alright."  
  
"Certainly... you will be." Charles said quietly, as the door shut and Charles watched the short man run through the rain, his hat almost immediately plastered to his head and jet-black hair by the pressure of the downpour.   
  
***  
  
The thing was, Klinger didn't know anything about generators. He'd learned a little bit during his first few weeks as company clerk, but in an emergency, all he knew was that there were several switches and beyond that, he was hopelessly inept.  
  
His first mistake was thinking that all he'd have to do was flick the switches and turn the knobs a few times. When he finally reached the small metal barrel, he hesitated a moment and then gave it a swift kick.   
  
After determining that that wouldn't do it, he sighed deeply and pulled his hat off his head, then he brushed the wet tendrils of his hair out of his eyes.   
  
"I didn't think a person could get this wet..." He mumbled, looking around for the door. A small, inconspicuous metal hinged flap, it was hard enough to find in the daylight. With the darkness and the constant rain and the misty air, he hadn't a clue where to look, and it was only by the grace of a bolt of lightning in the distance that he caught sight of it and kept his hand on the thigh-high latch.   
  
His second mistake was jumping backwards the second he opened the door and a torrent of rainwater which had somehow accumulated in the machinery came pouring out. He slipped in his frantic activity and landed on his rear end rather hard, sliding backwards and dipping his head into the mud.   
  
"Great! Fantastic work so far, Max!" He yelled to himself, slipping in his effort to get to his feet. When he finally made it up, he found that his flashlight had rolled rather far away and was flickering due to the unexpected downpour and its immersion in mud. He quickly made it over and picked it up, turning it on and off several times before he got a steady beam. Cursing the awful quality of Army technology, he took another deep breath and shone the light in at the soaked knobs and switches, noting how the door was on by just a thread and had almost completely rusted away from its hinges on the inside.  
  
It looked bad, even to him. He cautiously reached in and flicked the switches, back and forth, to no avail.   
  
"Oh man, come on. Don't do this..."   
  
Why hadn't he gotten anybody to help him? The sudden realization that someone else might be able to fix this came like a beacon to a lost ship in the dark night sea. He hesitated only a second, looking in the direction of the corpsman tents in the hopes that he'd see a light that indicated that someone would be awake and eager to assist. Of course, it was all in vain because none of the lights worked.   
  
He put his hand on the door to close it, and all of a sudden, he saw a burst of light out of the corner of his eyes. His hand instinctively gripped the door more tightly out of surprise, and he kept his grip on the door until he felt a searing heat dart through the metal and he jumped backwards, clutching his hand to his chest.   
  
A moment later, he was blinded by an intense flash and he felt a sharp, white-hot pain in the side of his thigh that threw him to the ground, screaming. The light was gone just as swiftly as it appeared, and Klinger stared in disbelief and disorientation at the now smoking generator, which was conspicuously now missing its rusty door.   
  
Beneath his body, a warm liquid was running in a steady stream next to his hand, and in contrast with the chill mud underfoot, it felt nice, relaxing... almost like a gift from heaven....   
  
But the pain... the pain was still there. It felt as if his thigh was on fire, and he whimpered, rolling over onto it in an absurdly instinctive measure to not only protect the leg, but possibly use the cool mud to extinguish the flames he surely knew must have his leg engulfed.  
  
Instead, however, of giving relief, the pressure of his body against the ground seemed only to drive the burning deeper into his skin, feeling almost as if it was touching the bone. From what seemed like a thousand miles away, he heard a distinct snap that he felt against his skin.   
  
He cried, blubbering tears of self-pity, terror, agony and uncertainty, and with all the strength he had in him, he found himself breaking into a freezing and biting run. Anywhere... anywhere he went, there had to be someone who could put the fire out.   
  
The run didn't last long, suddenly he felt a strange fatigue coming over him, and walking seemed to do. So what if his leg was on fire... he was so tired... so tired and so dizzy.. and the howling winds had gotten so loud all of a sudden.   
  
When his head again hit the ground, he didn't even hear it, and the only reason he knew he'd collapsed was because when he tried to walk, the buildings didn't come any closer. He had a feeling he was screaming, but it was only a feeling, because the only thing he could hear was a horrible, deafening white noise that wouldn't stop. Couldn't stop, probably.   
  
Footsteps were approaching, and he tried to reach for the foot of whoever it was that was coming. Instead, though, he suddenly found himself face to face with someone.. someone he knew. His mind couldn't figure out who it was, but he wasn't doing anything about the burning.   
  
Klinger felt himself screaming the words "PUT IT OUT!", but all he heard was that white noise and a low, steady hum.   
  
Whoever the person was, he was concerned, yelling. Yelling with all his might, his hands on Klinger's shoulders and then, his face. He was clearly asking something, but it was inaudible.   
  
The next thing he knew, Klinger felt the back of his head lifting off the ground, and then something slid under his lower back and he was jerkily hoisted into the air, not in a very stable or comforting position, but it seemed that he was moving closer to the buildings.   
  
Indeed, the door to his office grew nearer and nearer, and then, oddly enough, he wondered about Charles' snide offer to make sure he came back in one piece. How ridiculous that was... here something had really happened, and Charles' only concern was making sure he was "in one piece". He probably wasn't even still there, Klinger thought with surprising lucidity.   
  
When he felt the rain stop, he knew he was inside, and a moment later, he felt his body touch down on a soft, flat surface. The pain was still in his leg, and he wondered where everybody was, where Charles was, for god's sake. He hadn't seen him on his way in the door, just as he suspected.   
  
Now, he saw a dark figure moving through the darkness, and he silently cried for the person to put the fire out. Why, WHY wouldn't anyone put the fire out?!   
  
As the figure neared him, he pushed himself into a seated position and although his head pounded in time to his rapid pulse, he was slowly beginning to be able to hear, and the first words he heard were his own.   
  
"I need to lie down... I just need to lie down."   
  
Then, Charles was there, standing in front of the door into the OR. "Klinger, stay there for one minute. Please, lie down."   
  
"My LEG's on fire! Major! It's on fire!!!" Klinger screamed, taking pleasure in his audible cries. "Put it the hell out!"   
  
"Corpsman! I need a stretcher, now! Get him prepped for surgery immediately. Watch his pulse, he may be in shock."   
  
"Major! Just... just put it out!!! Just.... put it out...." Klinger trailed off, his tongue strangely dry.   
  
***  
  
The door to the OR opened and Hawkeye sighed with hope, which was bordered with frustration, looking up with gritted teeth at whom he was positive had to be Klinger. Klinger, unsuccessful, complete with excuse after excuse about how hard he tried, but alas there was still not a trace of light to be had. How long it would be, he admitted to himself that he didn't want to know.   
  
He kept his mouth shut, but gave Potter an agonized glance, which Potter read clearly, and he took it upon himself to handle the situation without turning around.  
  
"The Lord said, 'let there be light, and a Lebanese company clerk to fiddle around with the generator until we get some. If at first you don't succeed, try try again. Make sense, Klinger?"   
  
"Sir..." A timid voice spoke as a reply. Potter realized that it was not Klinger's voice, and he looked over his shoulder at the figure in the doorway, who he finally identified as Nurse Kellye.   
  
"Oh, pardon me, Nurse. I thought you were our bearer of light."   
  
"Is it just me that has a feeling our 'bearer of light''s skipped out and left us to try to save this kid's leg with shadow puppets?" Hawkeye asked.   
  
"I sure hope not. I could never figure out how to make a butterfly." BJ quipped. "Kellye, you here to give us a hand?"   
  
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Colonel, but Major Winchester wishes to speak to you." Kellye said, sounding strangely distant and completely disregarding BJ's request.   
  
"Well, now. I'd love nothing more than to be able to chit-chat with Chuckles, Kellye... but we're a little pressed for time, here. Whatever it is, it can wait until the sun comes up, don't you think?"   
  
"Sir... I don't think it can." Kellye replied, her voice cold and strikingly final.   
  
Potter turned all the way around, trying his hardest to get a grasp of the situation with what little he had to work with. Kellye stood with her hands clasped, and Potter could see just enough of her face to tell that this was not a frivolity.   
  
"Is it more casualties?" BJ asked. "The PA's probably out." He made a move toward Potter, but he held up a hand to stop him.  
  
"Kellye, do an old Colonel a favor and spare us the suspense."  
  
"It's... it's Klinger, sir. Major Winchester found him outside."   
  
Her words were spoken in a professional tone, but the three men had a distinct feeling that they couldn't have had more power if they'd been screamed by a broken-voiced, sobbing med student. Potter met the gazes of BJ and, reluctantly, Hawkeye. Silently, then, he pulled off his gloves and followed Kellye out.   
  
Voices were monotonous against the rain, and in a barely-functional Pre-op, a saline IV and a shot of morphine were administered to a now numb and shocky Klinger, who looked small and frightened on a cot. Potter felt a sudden surge of shock at the sight of his company clerk, stripped of his left pant leg, bleeding, dirty and shaking.  
  
"What the hell happened to him?" Potter asked huskily.   
  
"He's got a piece of metal in his thigh." Kellye replied.   
  
"How in the devil--"   
  
"Colonel." Charles interrupted, moving to stand beside him.   
  
"Winchester, you look like a drowned rat. What in the hell is going on here?"   
  
"I don't pretend to understand how it happened, Colonel... but I found him outside like this. He's got rusted metal in his leg."   
  
"Shrapnel?" Potter asked stoically. "How is that possible?"  
  
"I believe it wasn't shrapnel.. or at least not the army's definition of it. This piece of metal appears to be some sort of panel, or perhaps a door of some kind. It's badly rusted, and deeply embedded. I shall need to surgically remove it."   
  
"And I guess this means no light. Great god almighty, this is the last thing we need right now, Major."   
  
"I whole-heartedly agree, Colonel... but the risk for tetanus is highly elevated due to the weather conditions... we must remove it tonight."   
  
"You think you're gonna be able to do it by candlelight? It'll have to be flushed out with some pretty strong antibiotics, too, and he'll have to be monitored for at least 72 hours. There's also a chance he'll... he'll lose it."   
  
Charles paused. "He was afraid. Afraid to go out in the rain... he had a feeling of dread."   
  
"I hate it when he's right." Potter sighed.   
  
"I promised him he'd get back in one piece, Colonel. It was an offhand remark, I tossed it off in a puerile attempt to soothe his fears..."   
  
Potter sighed again, and shook his head. "No one has any control over things like this. If he does get through this in one piece, he'll have you to thank."   
  
"I'm almost surprised, Colonel... you haven't once suggested that Pierce would have higher odds of success."   
  
"Not Pierce. Not tonight." Potter said, shaking his head.   
  
***   
  
Potter's return to the OR was silent, and he took a flashlight from a nurse, shining it into the bloody depths of the patient's leg without a sound.  
  
Hawkeye and BJ looked at each other and at Potter's stoic expression anxiously. "Colonel, what happened? Is Klinger okay?" BJ finally asked.  
  
"It's not good, boys. He might lose his leg." Potter replied.  
  
Hawkeye's eyes widened. "Lose his leg?! Colonel, what the hell are you talking about?"   
  
"He's got much the same problem our boy has... except Klinger's got one big piece."   
  
"Colonel, how?" BJ asked with horror.   
  
"I wish to hell I had some idea."   
  
Hawkeye was completely silent, his mind racing and trying desperately to keep his hands steady. His heart was palpitating and all through his body, the awful realization that one of his friends was badly injured sunk in.  
  
"Oh my god... he's got to have..." BJ trailed off as Potter nodded.  
  
"Don't worry, Winchester's got it covered."  
  
"With no light, it's going to be a tricky operation."   
  
The door from Pre-op opened, and 2 corpsman, followed by a nurse holding a flashlight, carried Klinger over to Charles' operating table. A moment later, Charles entered the room, horrified at the darkness.   
  
"This... can't be the lightest it gets in here!"  
  
"That's what we've got all the flashlights for, Charles..." BJ sighed.  
  
"Every pair of hands, holding a flashlight in one and a scalpel in the other. Welcome to the Spanish Inquisition." Hawkeye snarled. "Those damn lights."  
  
Charles frowned and Nurse Kellye stood across from him with only one hand occupied. Of course, it was holding a flashlight. "Allright... ahem.. anesthesia, Nurse."   
  
Kellye nodded and brought all her light around to the side of the bed with her. As she readied the mask, Klinger's eyes opened widely and he suddenly started to sit up, murmuring. Kellye quickly responded, putting her hands on his shoulders.   
  
"It's okay, Corporal. Just relax." She said gently.  
  
"What's okay? Hey... what's going on?" He asked shakily. "Why's it so dark in here?"  
  
"Klinger, please lie down..." Charles said.  
  
"I can't feel my leg... why can't I feel it? It was so... it was on fire before..."   
  
Kellye gave Charles a worried look, and he gestured for her to put him out. However, he wouldn't lie down, and shaky whimpers erupted from his chest every second or so.  
  
"Klinger, everything's going to be allright. It's just going to be a little operation, and you.. you'll be fine."   
  
"An operation?" Klinger asked. Beside him, Kellye tried to push him down and had little luck. "What do you mean, an operation?"   
  
"You have a piece of metal in your leg." Charles replied. "It needs to come out, but that's no problem."   
  
"Oh god. Am I.. Am I gonna lose it? Am I gonna lose it?" Klinger exclaimed.  
  
"Corporal, please lie down!"   
  
"Am I gonna lose it?!"  
  
Charles shook his head, an unusually pleasant smile on his face. "Of course not. I'm the best surgeon you could hope for."   
  
With that said, Klinger lie down, but he cast an uneasy look at Charles and then his gaze shifted over in the direction of Potter, BJ and Hawkeye.  
  
Hawkeye.  
  
Charles followed his look, and when he realized that Klinger was casting such a hopeful look at Pierce, he felt an odd mix of irritation and another emotion and he quickly looked away.   
  
"Nurse." He simply said, and Kellye placed the mask over Klinger's mouth. After a few moments, Klinger was in a deep slumber, and Charles sighed deeply, trying to set aside the poorly masked hurt he'd so shamefully felt just a minute earlier.  
  
Pierce. Of course, Pierce. Everyone wanted him as their doctor... Klinger trusted him the most out of anyone in the entire camp. And why not, of course? He was chief surgeon, and with good reason.   
  
Still... what Potter had said stuck in Charles' mind, and as he operated by flashlight and the rain continued to pour down on the roof, he often returned to those words that had said so little and implied so much:  
  
"Not Pierce. Not Tonight."   
  
***   
  
"Hawk." BJ said, sounding as if it wasn't the first time he'd tried to get his friend's attention. At the sound of BJ's voice, Hawkeye turned his head to face his friend and realized he'd been looking behind him again.   
  
"Yeah, Beej. I'm still here." He sighed. "Still here. Let's get some suction here and another pint of blood."   
  
The nurse went off to comply, and BJ shook his head. "There's arterial damage, and his BP's low. Hawk, I don't know if there's much more..."   
  
"Beej, forget about it. This kid is not losing his leg just because we're operating blind."   
  
Potter gave Hawkeye a glance, and smiled behind his mask. "Just goes to show what's possible when someone puts their mind to it. Just an hour ago, you weren't so sure you could do it."  
  
Thunder rolled, and Hawkeye shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter whether or not I think I can do it. It has to be done."   
  
Charles had been silent during the entire operation, barely raising his voice above a whisper when he asked Kellye for tools. A strange pain gnawed at his insides as he heard Hawkeye's courageous words, a pain he recognized as envy and was unable to rid himself of, despite his best efforts. Inwardly, he longed for the boisterous OR session of just a few hours ago; longed to hear Pierce and Hunnicutt making sophomoric cracks that he could tell himself were a direct result of their atrocious and philistine upbringing, longed to be able to put himself above them the way he so often did.   
  
The feelings were a shock to him, and he knew it couldn't just be because of the lack of jokes. It was a combination of everything... the knowledge that had Pierce not had his patient, he would be the one to operate on Klinger and have the glory he so rightly deserved; the chilling words Klinger had spoken and the way he clearly didn't trust his default doctor; and of course that damnable rain that refused to stop and the darkness it brought with it... physical and psychological blackness.   
  
"Clamp, please." Charles said quietly, as a flash of lightning brought brief illumination. In the second or so that the OR lit up, Charles was shocked to his foundation to see Hawkeye turned around, looking at him.   
  
When the darkness returned, Charles felt a seething anger at the idea of Pierce deigning to turn around. His patient was so important, after all; poor fellow that happened to get caught in a horrid situation but would live to be the latest Hawkeye Pierce miracle. Or was it possible that Hawkeye now thought he'd be able to perform two miracles at once?   
  
Tension was so high that when the door opened, everyone simultaneously jumped. The door closed and the figure revealed itself to be Margaret.   
  
"Well, fancy meeting you here." BJ said.  
  
"I heard you could use some more help." She replied simply. "My god, I don't think I've ever seen it this dark in here."   
  
"We'd like to do something about that, Margaret, but see, Beej and I have a bet going. 20 bucks says we can't save this patient in our sleep." Hawkeye muttered, to the surprise of almost everyone else in the room.   
  
"I know all about the generator. I was reading Stars and Stripes when it went out."   
  
"I bet it was suddenly a much more interesting read." BJ said.   
  
"Has anyone tried to fix it?" Margaret asked, her patience wearing thin.   
  
"Margaret..." Potter said softly, gesturing toward Charles' table. She frowned and followed the light across the room to where Charles and Kellye silently operated. The features of their patient were frighteningly familiar, and she allowed a soft gasp to escape her lips.   
  
"Kellye, I'll... I'll take over."   
  
Charles looked up. "Margaret." He said, simply, oddly grateful for her assistance and attention. Kellye whispered a few details in Margaret's ear, and then she took her flashlight and left. In the silence following Kellye's exit, Margaret looked over the wound and shook her head.   
  
"How did this happen?"   
  
Charles pointed at the piece of metal he'd removed, sitting lopsidedly in a metal pan. "I've removed it, but it snapped off inside his skin. His tissue is burned and there's nerve damage."   
  
"Oh lord, not to mention... that's rusted."   
  
"I've nearly finished with the procedure, but he shall need..."   
  
"I've dealt with tetanus risks before, Doctor." Margaret interrupted gently. "How on earth did it happen, though? Burning? And what is this?"   
  
"I've no idea. I saw him leave to go fix the generator..."   
  
Margaret frowned. "'You'? What were you doing there? I thought you were going back to your tent."   
  
"I-- I was, Margaret! But being a doctor, it would be rather negligent of me to stand idly by..."   
  
"The generator isn't close to your tent, Charles."   
  
"Surely... you are not accusing me of..."   
  
"Charles, who cares what she's accusing you of? Would you two keep it down? I'm trying to concentrate, here!" Hawkeye interrupted with annoyance.   
  
"Excuse me, Doctor! I did just get here, after all!" Margaret snapped.   
  
"Hawk, his pulse is slowing." BJ said, looking over the nurse's shoulder.  
  
"More units of blood. Suction." Hawkeye replied.   
  
"Pierce, this is looking bad." Potter practically whispered.   
  
"Colonel, I'm not going to lose this kid's leg!" He yelled, as another spurt of blood erupted and landed on his mask. "Goddammit! It's just shrapnel!! It's just goddamn shrapnel! Come on!"   
  
"Hawkeye, calm down." Margaret cried.   
  
"What the hell is God thinking?!" Hawkeye snarled. "Come on!!!"   
  
"Pierce, it's no good." Potter said quietly. "Prepare to..."   
  
"It's just shrapnel!! Just shrapnel! I could do this with my eyes closed!" He screamed. "You damn rain... you goddamn rain! What the hell is WRONG WITH YOU?!"   
  
The rain didn't answer.  
  
***  
  
3:00 a.m. came quickly. Hawkeye sat back, poured a drink and then grinned and bore the abrasive taste of the liquid as it burned his throat.  
  
The liquor made his head buzz and he sensed, more than heard, BJ coming into the swamp. He was walking on eggshells because of the fact that he'd sent Hawkeye to bed while he performed the amputation, and seeing Hawkeye awake, and drunk, prompted a sigh.   
  
"Hawk, get some sleep. You aren't doing any good getting drunk like that."   
  
Hawkeye didn't reply, and BJ shook his head, taking a glass for himself. "You look awful."   
  
"How can you tell?"  
  
"I can tell. Nobody drinks this stuff when they look good."  
  
Hawkeye shook his head, smiling bitterly. "I beg to differ. Right now, you look good enough to eat."   
  
"Wait until breakfast."   
  
"Beej, I think I'm hungry now."   
  
"You're drunk now, is what you are. I don't like kissing drunk guys. I get the feeling they're just using me for my boyish good looks and they don't really respect me."   
  
"Respect is so overrated. Come here, just sit by me for a second."   
  
BJ sipped his drink. "Charles could come back at any minute, you know."  
  
"I'll be a gentleman. I just need someone to sit by me for a second, so I know I'm not completely dead."   
  
"Hawk, you're far from dead." BJ hesitated for just a second, then he plopped down on the bed next to his friend. "Okay, there. See? Alive as ever. You're so sloshed right now I think you'll live a hundred years. Your organs are pickling as we speak."  
  
"A hundred years, huh? Isn't that how old I am already?" Hawkeye sighed, leaning against BJ's shoulder.   
  
"Then you'll live two hundred. Just make sure and remember me."  
  
Hawkeye looked at him. "One day, we're all gonna be nothing but memories. And then one day, there won't be anybody left to remember us. Then, there won't be anybody left to remember the people that remembered us." He shook his head. "It never ends."   
  
"And it never will." BJ said just as somberly.   
  
"They were shaking, Beej. They were."   
  
"I didn't see it."  
  
"You didn't see it, but I sure did. I wasn't just imagining it, I *felt* it. I felt it just the same way I see how gray I've gotten. How long have we been here now?"   
  
"Forever." BJ laughed weakly.   
  
"Think that's true? That we've always been here, and everything that happened before was just a dream? Do you think that we were born old, battered, so tired that no matter how long we sleep, we'll never feel anything more than half-dead?"  
  
"Oh come on. Of course not. Hawk, of course not."   
  
"That's what I tell myself, too. But every day, I believe it less and less. I vaguely remember coming here, and I was a young man then. Young and idealistic. I can't even believe it. Me, idealistic. It's unfathomable, isn't it?"   
  
"Not necessarily."   
  
Hawkeye sighed with exasperation. "You just say that because you always see the best in everyone."   
  
"Hawk, I only see what's there, just like everyone else. And I didn't see your hands shaking. Although, if they were, god knows they'd have a reason to."   
  
"No, they wouldn't. They had absolutely no reason to shake. You know how easy that should have been."   
  
"It was just a bad night." BJ whispered.  
  
"A bad night? No such thing. Every night's a bad night. It's been so long since I had a good night that I've forgotten what constitutes one. This was a normal night, but I couldn't handle it." He sighed deeply and shuddered. "I couldn't handle it, Beej."   
  
"Shut up, Hawk."   
  
Hawkeye gave him a sober look, leaned over and took BJ's chin in his hand. "Shut me up, Beej."   
  
"You're impossible." BJ muttered.  
  
"Nothing's impossible."  
  
"Thought you said you weren't idealistic anymore."   
  
"It's hard not to be when I'm looking at you."   
  
"That's the booze talking, Hawk."   
  
"You'd rather hear the sobriety talking?"   
  
"I'd rather hear nothing talking. Dammit, come here."   
  
***  
  
The screams started out low in the throat, and at a primal level, they were as natural a sound as could be made, so they were greatly ignored. Had anyone had the poetic state of mind necessary to compose such thoughts, they could have looked out the window and compared the low, rhythmic breathing and occasional moans of the patients to the slowly-dissipating patter of the rain. The rain that had gone on for three days, taken lives and a man's leg was now coming to an end, and ironically enough, those who most eagerly awaited the end of the storm were feverishly sleeping or watching others sleep.   
  
Margaret was seated at the desk in post-op, accompanied only by the occasional waking injured man who she then calmly reassured and coaxed back to sleep, leaving her alone again.   
  
Writing up reports in the dark wasn't easy; she had only one of those damned flashlights to provide light, and it was a clumsy process; she finally just set the flashlight on its side on the desk and worked in the yellow beam that spread over the paper. Largely a mundane process, she fought back her fatigue and refused to think about how little she'd slept since the rain began and everything in the world went wrong. Her tiredness wasn't a factor right now, she reminded herself. Just a few beds away were a patient who'd just had an amputation, and another one she prayed wouldn't face the same fate.   
  
She heard a man mumble in his sleep, and she frowned as she heard another man mumble something else, a little louder. The first man said something else, and made a strange sound in his throat. It was silent again, and she returned to writing.   
  
Then, just above the sound of her pencil's scratching and the ever-slowing rain, she heard a steady moan which quickly loudened to a near-scream. She quickly got out of her chair and carried the flashlight with her, rushing down the middle of the room in the direction of the scream.   
  
"Shhh! Shhh, it's allright..." She said in a hushed voice, studying the dark forms of the men in the blackness.  
  
"I can't see anything!! Why can't I see anything?!! Where am I?" The man screamed.   
  
Margaret finally caught sight of him toward the middle of the room, and she quickly rushed over to his bed, putting her hand on his leg. "You're alright. You're fine. You're at the M*A*S*H 4077 in post-op."   
  
He shook his head frantically. "Who are you?! Why is it so dark?! I can't see you!"   
  
She shone the flashlight at her face, putting on a reassuring smile. "There, see? I'm right here. My name is Major Margaret Houlihan."   
  
"It's so dark... why is it so dark?"   
  
"Our generator's out, but don't worry--"   
  
"I need... are you there?"   
  
"Yes, I'm right here."   
  
He inhaled deeply, making an odd clicking noise. "Come closer... I need to touch someone, need to know you're really here."   
  
She smiled and approached him, finding his hand through the blanket and gently taking it in hers. She gave his hand a squeeze and sat down next to the bed. "There, is that better?"   
  
"Oh, yes... thank you..." The man mumbled, sliding his hand out of hers. "I feel... much better now."   
  
"I'm glad to hear that." Margaret said.   
  
"Yeah... thanks." He said sheepishly. "I'm sorry I made such a fuss."   
  
She cocked her head to one side and smiled. "Everyone's a little afraid of the dark, and being wounded in a strange place..."   
  
"Oh, I'm not wounded so badly." He sniffed.  
  
"Badly enough, soldier."   
  
"Say, Major... are the rest of these guys asleep?"   
  
She frowned at the odd change of subject, but answered calmly. "It's the middle of the night, isn't it?"   
  
He nodded, pausing. "I haven't seen my wife in 5 months. I sure miss her."   
  
Margaret smiled sympathetically and leaned over him to put her hand on his shoulder. "You'll see her soon."   
  
"You know... you're just as beautiful as she is."   
  
"How long have you been married?" Margaret asked, trying to get his mind off the comparison between her and the woman he left behind. However, he didn't answer and she saw him anxiously wringing his hands. She took her hand off his shoulder and sat back up, crossing her legs.   
  
He still didn't reply, instead he suddenly shot one hand over to her thigh. She looked at his hand warily and then met his eyes.   
  
"Major, it's so dark... no one will know! It's been five months, Major... and I'm up for a promotion come March. They won't ever send me home, and you look so much like Sue..."  
  
"But I'm not Sue, Private."   
  
"She'd understand, Major! Sometimes a guy just gets lonely!"   
  
Margaret's eyes turned cold at his words, and she hastily stood up, letting his hand flop over the side of the bed. She turned to walk away, and he fumbled around for something he could say.   
  
However, she spoke first; harshly and without a trace of sentiment. "This is a post-op ward, Private, not a geisha house. And if I hear talk of you harassing any of my nurses, it'll go in my report and your CO will hear about it."   
  
"Aww, come on, Margaret. Can I call you Margaret?"   
  
"I don't think so, Private."   
  
"I know she'd understand. She's real nice..."   
  
"And I know what it's like to be 'real nice' that way. Good night, Private."   
  
She found it a good deal easier this time to find her way back toward her desk, and as she made her way through the dark, she heard a voice below the sound of the rain, but it was loud enough that it stopped her and turned her head toward the patient speaking.  
  
"You shoulda slugged him, Major." Klinger said weakly. Margaret found herself smiling, and with the flashlight she found her way to his bedside.   
  
"Women around here get that kind of thing all the time." She replied, having a seat.  
  
"Oh, yeah. I know. I used to be one, remember?" Klinger sighed, smiling a little and sparkling his eyes at the thought. "If I had a dress on, I bet he'd say I look just like Sue, too."   
  
"How are you feeling?" Margaret asked, lying the flashlight down on the mattress. Its beam scattered in the folds of the blanket and created a soft glow that allowed the two to see each other.  
  
Klinger shrugged a little. "They could discover a brand new level of terrible, and I don't think the way I feel right now would even be covered."   
  
"That bad, hmm? Are you in pain?"  
  
"Don't give me a shot, Major. I'm afraid of where the needle would land."   
  
Margaret smiled with a little exasperation. "I just asked if you were in any pain, Klinger. You're at risk for tetanus now, and I need to keep an eye on you."   
  
"Tetanus?"   
  
"You were immunized shortly before your surgery, but it's important that..."  
  
"That's it, then." Klinger said.  
  
"What's it?"   
  
"Well... I... I always knew I was gonna go in a bad way, Major. Something gruesome and painful... something you don't want to tell the kids before bed. But jeez, Major.. I'd at least hoped I'd go out with a bang. My chute doesn't open after I'm thrown from a plane or something. Or maybe I'm standing by the Hoover Dam and it breaks and I'm the first to go..."   
  
"Klinger..." Margaret tried to interrupt him, but he kept right on going.  
  
"Maybe even standing on a landmine... but tetanus? Oh, Major, I don't know. Couldn't you be a pal and write something really heroic-sounding on my death certificate? I don't want my parents to be ashamed of me..."  
  
"Oh, Klinger..."  
  
"How about say I died in a bullfight? My dad likes bullfights, Major! Oh! No, wait. That's no good. That's how my Uncle Skeezer died."   
  
"Klinger..."  
  
"I know! I was accidentally gunned down by friendly fire while leading a group of orphans to safety! My body will have to be cremated, though, cause otherwise my family will wonder how come I'm not full of bulletholes."  
  
"Oh, Klinger, stop it! You aren't going to die! I said you were a tetanus RISK, but you were immunized." Margaret exclaimed.  
  
Klinger paused for a minute, studying her face. "Is that true?"   
  
"Of course it is."   
  
"It's true? I'm not gonna die of tetanus? Oh, well... I mean, not to impugn your... uh... nursing prowess, Major. If you say it's true, I'll sure believe you!"  
  
"It's true, Klinger."   
  
"You aren't just lying to put my mind at ease?"   
  
"No, Klinger."   
  
"And... you... I mean, you're a nurse, so doesn't it go against your code of ethics or something to lie to a patient?"  
  
"It's not a lie if it's the truth, Klinger." Margaret said smoothly.  
  
Klinger exhaled hastily. "Oh, boy, Major. You sure do have a way with words."   
  
"It's still a few hours until dawn, and you should get some more sleep." Margaret said, patting his shoulder.   
  
"Dawn... oh man. The generator." He groaned. "That's how this happened. No one's fixed it yet, have they?"  
  
"No, no one has. What do you mean that's how this happened, Klinger?" She asked him, partly out of concern and curiosity, and partly because she had no idea what to write in his report; Charles, Kellye and the rest of the triage staff hadn't been very helpful, saying only "He was found outside".   
  
"I was trying to fix the generator. Colonel Potter sent me out because Hawkeye had a bad patient and he was operating by flashlight. Boy, do I wish I'd known what to do. I really don't know how to fix it; my specialty's landing the dumb things, and not always by honorable means. But when it comes to repairs, I'm as blind as a bat. If I'd been smart, I'd have just gone and asked someone for help."   
  
"I see... so, what happened?" Margaret asked.  
  
"I opened the door, and all this water came pouring out. I was gonna go get someone, but then all of a sudden, there was this bright flash and a loud bang, and suddenly my leg was on fire. Well, or at least.. it felt like it was. I know I was yelling for someone to put it out, but no one would."  
  
Margaret frowned. "The... the door?" Her eyes widened and she put a hand over her mouth. Drawing it quickly away, she whispered. "Klinger, it wasn't fire. A piece of the generator door was in your leg. That's what we pulled out. It was rusty, wasn't it?"  
  
"Rusty? Yeah... it was real rusty."   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Oh, well... you know... boy, I thought it was on fire, so I started running... I know you aren't supposed to, but it was all I could think to do... but then it got too hard to run, so I walked, and then I fell down and someone carried me back inside. I wonder who that was that carried me inside... they just disappeared after that, and then Major Winchester was there and telling me to calm down."   
  
Margaret frowned. Hadn't Charles said that he found Klinger outside?   
  
"What... what exactly was Major Winchester doing there, anyway?"   
  
Klinger shrugged. "Oh... well, he was standing in my office, watching the rain. Before I left..." He chuckled dryly. "He said he'd make sure I came back in one piece. I know he was just being himself about it and didn't expect anything to happen... but I guess he did do the operation, didn't he? I was kind of a jerk to him before the surgery."  
  
"So you don't know who it is that carried you inside?"   
  
"It's dumb, Major. I was looking at his face the whole time, but I don't know who it was. It was someone I knew, but... my brain just didn't work. All I could think about was my leg being on fire."   
  
"Klinger, this might sound a little strange, but I think it was Major Winchester who brought you inside." Margaret said with a bit of uncertainty.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm not sure, Klinger. He said he found you outside the way you were after you were wounded. And if he said he'd make sure you came back in one piece..."  
  
Klinger shook his head, looking downward. "Oh, boy, Major. Do you really think so? Do you really think it was him? He said he hated the rain."   
  
"Well, Klinger, that doesn't matter if there's wounded."   
  
"No, I guess it doesn't... oh man, Major. There... I mean, there was nobody around. It could have been a long time before anyone came looking for me. And I didn't think it was him, and I was mad that he didn't keep his promise to make sure I was okay. But he did."   
  
"You're very lucky."   
  
Klinger didn't answer, he just shook his head.   
  
***  
  
"No, son, just listen to me. All I said was... no, Sergeant. No one called you that. I said a CLERK, son. Someone who can file and type and answer the phones. No, no, just temporary. Yes, Corporal Klinger. Well, it's sort of.... no, he's not pregnant again. And he's not that either, son. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"  
  
Father Mulcahy pushed open the door to Klinger's office and was noticeably taken aback at the sight of the hunched-over, irritated-looking Colonel Potter standing over the phone.   
  
Potter caught sight of Mulcahy and interrupted the sergeant on the other end of the line. "Listen, I don't care who you find, just find them damn quick. We've got patients here and I'm not about to send my surgeons out on Mail Call." He hung up with finality and put his hands on his hips.  
  
"Well, Colonel. Good Morning." Mulcahy said pleasantly.   
  
"Howdy, Padre. How'd it go out at the orphanage?" Potter asked, detaching himself from the messy desk and its' unfinished paperwork from the night before.  
  
Mulcahy heaved a deep sigh. "Well, thank the Lord we got all the children out before the flooding began, and no one was hurt. But unfortunately, the orphanage took a lot of damage from the storm. It's a blessing it stopped when it did, the roof will have to be repaired before the next storm begins."   
  
"Next storm." Potter repeated gravely.  
  
Mulcahy frowned. "Colonel, may I ask..."  
  
"No need, Padre. I intend to tell you the whole thing. But first I have to get on the horn to someone about fixing that generator."   
  
"Oh, dear. What's the matter with it?"   
  
"Knocked out by the storm."   
  
"Oh my. Where's--"  
  
"Knocked him out, too." Potter answered before Mulcahy could finish.   
  
"Is he allright?"   
  
"Will be, in a week or two. According to Major Houlihan, who spoke to him last night, there was some sort of explosion that drove a piece of the metal into his thigh."   
  
Mulcahy shook his head. "Land sakes... the things that just a little rain can do."  
  
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a jeep pulling up outside and honking. They shared a bemused glance, and Potter curiously walked over to the door.   
  
A moment later, he let out a startled yelp and jumped backwards as a huge canvas sack came barreling at him. It struck the side of the tent and clumsily rolled a little way inside the door. Outside, the jeep driver let out a hearty laugh and sped away.   
  
Potter frowned at the bag and then stuck his head out the door, watching the jeep zigzag out of the camp. "Boy, that's some lousy service..." He muttered, then he picked up the bag. "Mail... it's early."   
  
"Neither rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night." Mulcahy recited with a smile.  
  
"Well, Padre, the question remains... who in the sam hill's gonna deliver all this?"   
  
***  
  
The sound of a massive "thwomp" filled the Swamp.   
  
Hawkeye jumped up in a panic, his bloodshot eyes darting around the room for the source of the noise. ""Whosawhuzza... whaaa was that noise? Who's there?!"   
  
He finally locked eyes on a bent-over figure that turned out to be that of Igor, leaning over a large canvas sack. "Oh, gee. Did I wake you, Captain?" Igor asked emotionlessly.  
  
"Wake me?! WAKE ME? My heart'll never be below 1,000 beats a second again, Igor! What the hell do you think you're doing with that sack?!"   
  
"In officers quarters, much less." Charles mumbled, pulling the sheets back over his head.   
  
"Aww, come on, guys! You know me." Igor protested.  
  
"And we know you're not good enough for our quarters. Our nickels, maybe, but you're on your own for the rest." Hawkeye said.  
  
"Hey, this isn't my fault! I need help, and no one else will do it."   
  
"What, you find a pay laundry around here somewhere?"   
  
"That's not laundry, *Captain*, it's mail. Colonel Potter's got the idea that I'm supposed to deliver it all! I mean, hey, that's not fair at all! I can't read the addresses, you know? I just throw all my mail away!"   
  
"And Michelle wonders why you never write her back." BJ murmured, opening his eyes.   
  
Igor put his hands on his hips. "Hey, this isn't fair, my specialty is cooking! You guys gotta help me, I can't do this junk! I mean, you're doctors, you're used to doing things fast."   
  
"There are some things that can't be rushed, Igor." BJ said. "People will understand if their mail is a little late."   
  
"A LITTLE late? A future civilization will be writing graduate theses on the discovery of the fossilized, unopened recipe for Mildred Potter's sponge cake if we let him do it by himself. I'll help, Igor. Give me some of that laundry." Hawkeye said, suddenly strangely willing to help.  
  
"Oh, gee, thanks Captain! You're a real pal!" Igor exclaimed.   
  
BJ sat up. "Hawk, you're not really going to deliver that mail..."  
  
"Why not? Maybe I'll blackmail someone while I'm at it. Call in a few favors."   
  
Igor nodded. "Yeah, yeah, see? Captain Hunnicutt, how about you?"   
  
"No thanks, Igor."   
  
"Hey, Beej... the sun's out, the rain stopped! It's a beautiful day, wouldn't you like to go for a walk with me?" Hawkeye asked, the somber, drunk man from last night completely melted away.  
  
"The only place I'm walking is to the latrine and back to bed. You kids have fun, though, hey?"   
  
Hawkeye shrugged. "Hey, your loss. What about you, Charles?" He poked at Charles' curled-up figure through the blanket.   
  
"A Winchester, delivering MAIL?" Charles spat in a muffled tone. "I think not."   
  
"Aww, but Major, you're smart and stuff." Igor argued.  
  
"Yeah, Charles. Hey, start out easy. Here's one to me. 'Captain Hawkeye Pierce'. Just hand it to me."   
  
Charles peeked one eye out from under the blanket, and studied the envelope. "I believe you're referring to 'Captain Hackeye Pierce'. I'm afraid I don't know him."   
  
Hawkeye whipped the envelope around and stared at it in disbelief. "H... CAPTAIN HACKEYE PIERCE? HACK-eye?!"  
  
"You must have been teased a lot in school." BJ said sympathetically.   
  
"H... Oh, come on! It isn't that hard to spell, is it? Igor, is my name hard to spell?"   
  
Igor stared at him dumbfoundedly. "I couldn't do it... But hey, if you're really gonna help me, we better get a move on."   
  
"Right, right. Uh... Corporal Meane. Who's that?"   
  
"I don't know." Igor exclaimed. "You're the smart one!"   
  
"Actually, I got the school nerd to take tests for me." Hawkeye sighed, following Igor out the door into the sunshine.   
  
"Really? That makes two of us!"   
  
BJ sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "That strike you as a little odd?" He asked Charles as soon as Hawkeye and Igor were gone.  
  
"Pierce? Of course not."   
  
"You didn't see him last night then."   
  
Charles pulled the covers down and he propped himself up on one elbow. "What do you refer to? His outburst in the OR, or the drunken aftermath in which you two ended up entwined in each others' arms on his cot?"   
  
The color drained out of BJ's face, and his eyes looked as hollow as a skull. "Oh... my god."   
  
Charles laughed quietly and slid out of bed. "I believe I shall beat you to the latrine at this rate. And then, I'd better get to post-op and check on our official postman. Pierce could use his sleep, agreed?"   
  
"Charles... you... aren't going to..."   
  
"Tell anyone? Certainly not." He had an almost insulted look on his face. "Of course not. I will advise you, however, to be a bit more subtle about it. Everyone in the camp knew of Pierce's emotional duress, and that you comforted him in such a manner is hardly discreet."   
  
BJ sighed. "I know... it was just... his face. He felt so responsible for that kid losing his leg."   
  
"Well, he is. But it's no fault of his as a surgeon, it's just that he panicked."   
  
"Yeah. I know. Usually such a pillar of strength... but I couldn't get him to keep his mind on the patient."   
  
"He did seem to have more than a... a passing interest in my operation on Klinger. If I may speak candidly about the man you've given yourself to, I believe he thought he should have been the one to perform his surgery. Of course, I vehimently disagree. I was clearly the best surgeon for the job."   
  
"Oh god. That idiot, he better not have thought he was responsible. Oh, listen to me. Hawkeye Pierce, refusing a cross to bear." BJ slapped his forehead. "It always goes just that little bit deeper."   
  
"And so, I believe, it ever shall. Do excuse me." Charles gave a tiny smile and left BJ to his contemplations.   
  
***   
  
Kellye yawned widely as she picked up a basin of warm water and carried it into Post-Op. The yawn was long, but she was no less sure footed than ever, and managed a quick "Excuse me, Major" as she passed Margaret.   
  
She arrived at her destination and set the basin down on the stool next to Klinger's bed, shaking him out of a half-dozing reverie.   
  
"Hi Klinger." She said simply.   
  
He blinked, his eyes darting from the basin to her and back to the basin. "Hi Kellye."   
  
"It's time for your sponge bath."   
  
His eyes continued to dart back and forth, and the words caught in his throat. "My what?"   
  
"Sponge bath." She repeated calmly.   
  
"Are... you sure? I mean, you're sure it's now, and uh... not later?"   
  
"Nope, it's now."   
  
Klinger bit his lower lip and frantically tried to find a way out of the situation he'd been placed in. For it wasn't that he was embarrassed to be this helpless and have to be bathed by a woman, although at the moment he couldn't think of what the reason could possibly be if that wasn't it.   
  
He looked Kellye up and down, saw her ready stature and her intent eyes, and knew it wouldn't be easy to reason his way out of it. Still, though, he had to try.  
  
"Oh, Kellye... I don't know if this is such a good idea. Our relationship is fine the way it is, why rush into things like this?" He finally said after an indeterminate amount of eye-darting.  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "What relationship, Klinger?"   
  
"Hey, come on, Kellye... I think we have quite a rapport going if I may say so. Look at it: Max and Kellye, buddyroos, amigos, compadres to the very end! Why mess something like that up with some dumb sponge bath that will only put a strain on our magnificent friendship?"   
  
"Well, gee... we never do anything outside of work, I didn't know we were such good friends." She said innocently.   
  
"Kellye, my dear... I never spend time with people I like! We got a good thing going, I don't want it to end over this!"   
  
Margaret passed by at that moment and Kellye gave Klinger a dry grin. "Major, Corporal Klinger doesn't want me to bathe him. What shall I do?"   
  
"He doesn't? Klinger, what's the matter with you? Kellye's a fine nurse and she makes a mean sponge bath. Men line up for her sponge baths, don't they, Kellye?" Margaret asked, a teasing smile on her face.   
  
"Sure they do, Major. Uh-huh." Kellye agreed.   
  
"Oh, Major Houlihan, it's not that! It's just that... she's too pretty. And so are you. Everyone here is too pretty, that's why no one ever believed I was a girl! They'd take a look at me, then they'd look at you or Kellye or even... even Father Mulcahy... If this place had some ugly nurses named Helga, I'd consider it, but as it is..."   
  
"Klinger, no one's ever died of embarrassment." Margaret said. "Now listen, every wounded man who comes through here gets exactly the same treatment, and you are no exception."   
  
"But Major, I work here! That's not fair to the other guys!"   
  
"All's fair in love and war." Kellye shrugged. "Come on, buddyroo."   
  
Klinger began to protest, but Margaret put a finger in the air. "Do what she says, Klinger. Let the doctors keep their reputation for being the worst patients."   
  
He sighed deeply. "Okay, Major. Kellye, let's get it over with, huh?"   
  
She lifted her chin and grinned. "I'll try not to embarrass you too much with my stunning beauty."   
  
***   
  
Hawkeye realized with a grin that he'd never been so happy to see the sunshine and the outside of the nurses' tent, and despite his pounding head and the near-blindness the sun reflecting off the puddles and the mud brought, he was able to bring himself to feel halfway alive.   
  
He drew in a breath and then grinned as widely as he could without sending himself into a fit of agony. Then, he eagerly knocked on the door to the nurses' tent.   
  
From inside, he heard a voice murmur and then a louder, "Who is it?"   
  
"It's the mailman!" He practically sang. A confused silence followed, and several women discussed the situation. He heard his name a few times, and then the door cracked open. A curly-haired, short redhead peeked her head out the door with an annoyed look on her face.  
  
"Good morning, madame! The mailman cometh!"   
  
"Uh huh. What's that you say? The mailman? According to Nurse Baker, you tried that one before. Twice." She said.  
  
"Oh, but this is different. This time I really am. I'm delivering mail, see?" He held up several envelopes for her to see.  
  
"Uh huh." She frowned at the envelopes. "Well, unfortunately, I don't think Private Ronald Cortus, Jr. lives here anymore. You'll find him over in the enlisted men's tent." She casually pointed.  
  
Hawkeye turned the envelope over, and shook his head. "Oh, no... ha ha. Hey, I've got your mail here somewhere." He started to rummage through the bag. "Somewhere... damn. Igor! Hey, Igor!"   
  
"Igor? Right, Hawkeye. You get an 'A' for effort, though." She shook her head with amusement and shut the door.   
  
"Hey! No, wait! I really have your mail! I really do! Nurse!" He cursed under his breath and gritted his teeth. "Thanks a lot, Igor."   
  
At that moment, Igor came running up breathlessly. "Captain! You called?"   
  
"Called? Yeah, I did! Where's all the nurses' mail?"   
  
"Oh, I have it." Igor replied.   
  
"ALL of it?!" Hawkeye exclaimed.  
  
"Well, Captain... this IS my job, after all. Oh, uh... enlisted mens' tent is that way." He gestured with his head.  
  
Hawkeye stared at him in disbelief and then spun on his heel, exasperated. "How do you like this guy? Try to help him out, and this is the thanks you get? Well, this is the last time I bestow any of my good graces onto anybody. I'm very hung over, after all. I ought to be in bed. Preferably with someone who's also hung over."   
  
He sighed and stuck his hand in the bag, pulling out a thin, flimsy envelope at random. Scanning the back of it, he saw that the envelope was a light pink with darker designs printed on the paper. It was closed by a contrasting couple of pieces of tape, which Hawkeye thought a little odd.   
  
Turning over the envelope, he felt his heart skip a beat as he saw a messy scrawling of an address, and its intended recipient:  
  
"Maxie Q. Klinger".  
  
Of course, Hawkeye knew exactly where to find him. That didn't mean, however, that he was eager to make the trip, much less arrive at the destination.   
  
After a moment of hesitation, he cursed a silent oath and began in the direction of post-op. It would only take a second, and putting it off would be rude. Klinger never missed mail call, after all, and no matter how many letters there were, he was generally somewhere in the vicinity of being on time. He at least deserved the same consideration.   
  
Besides, Hawkeye thought humorlessly, he could always check to see how good a job Charles did on the operation.   
  
***  
  
He arrived in post-op with very little ceremony, and no one looked up except a few patients and Nurse Kellye. She didn't say anything when she saw him, just nodded and went back to changing a dressing.   
  
Hawkeye wondered idly what to do now, how to proceed, and then he heard a cough from the patient in the bed nearest the door. Instinctively, he looked over at the patient and recognized him as one of his from the night before, prior to the power outage. He'd had a dislocated shoulder and hadn't gotten to batallion aid for about 4 hours, so when he came in he was running a temperature and had the beginnings of what looked to be strep.   
  
"Private Rawlings, that's a nasty bark you've got there." He said quietly.   
  
"Hi, doc. Gee, I feel rotten." Rawlings replied, his voice raspy.   
  
"Don't you worry, I heard the cook in the mess tent is whipping up some condensed, powdered, artificially-flavored chicken soup for all of our cold patients right as we speak. Pretty soon, you won't even remember that nasty sore throat, except when the soup passes by on its way back up."   
  
Rawlings shook his head. "It'd be better than what I ate before I got hurt. The sarge had a whole bunch of cans of sausage, and that's all we ate for a week straight. Cold, canned sausage."   
  
"I bet you'll be glad if you never see a pair of boots again." Hawkeye mused.  
  
"Why's that, doc?"  
  
"What, you don't think they use real sausage in that junk, do you? Boots and rubber basketballs, Private."   
  
"Yeah, well, it sure bounced around my stomach. I believe the basketballs part."   
  
"Don't let them tell you any differently. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some mail to deliver." Hawkeye felt his spirits rising after his talk with Rawlings, and he wasn't half as nervous about facing Klinger or his amputee from last night.  
  
"Mail, doc? They got you working a real stiff job here." Rawlings exclaimed.   
  
"Nah, the rain washed all the starch out of it." Hawkeye grinned and turned away, surveying the room.   
  
He saw Klinger toward the middle of the room, engrossed in what looked to be a romance novel, with a scantily-clad lady in the arms of a tanned, blonde man with his shirt unbuttoned on the cover.   
  
When he approached the bed, he shook his head. "'The affair of Walter Paybrooke?' A guy who looks like that, and he has a name like Walter Paybrooke?"   
  
Klinger put the book down and raised an eyebrow. "There's more to a man than his name, Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce."  
  
"Sure, but... that guy needs a name like... John Stalward or Buff Jackson. Walter Paybrooke is some skinny banker in a pinstripe suit who lives with his nanny!"   
  
"He happens to be heir to the Paybrooke fortune. His mumsy and dadsy don't approve of Wanda, she's the girl in the taffeta." He gestured to the woman on the cover.  
  
"Klinger, save yourself. Quick, hurry. It isn't too late. Read this. It's from... uh... Num Num." Hawkeye held out the letter.   
  
Klinger frowned and took the letter. "Hey, what are you doing with my mail?"   
  
"Someone thought I was you by mistake. I'm not sure if that's a credit to you or to me, but considering your choice of literature, I think it's a credit to you. At least dirty magazines have a plot."   
  
"So what's with all the other mail, then?" Klinger paused, gesturing at the mail bag.  
  
"What, this? Oh, this isn't mail. The army's using reverse psychology, labelling everything incorrectly. Only difference is, this time, they're doing it on purpose. This is actually a cleverly disguised shipment of morphine."   
  
Klinger shook his head. "You're delivering the mail. That's my job."   
  
Hawkeye sighed. "Well, I'd love to let you do it, but I think that would violate the hypocratic oath. Listen, Klinger, it's no big deal. Colonel Potter asked Igor to do it and I'm just helping him."   
  
"IGOR? Colonel Potter's trusting that numbskull with my mail route? I can't believe it! Hey, not just any idiot can do that job!"   
  
"Oh, but Klinger, Igor's a very special idiot."   
  
"Man, this really stinks. While I'm sitting here, laid up with a bad leg and a risk of tetanus, Igor's probably out there wondering how come there's a 'T' in 'Potter'. And what about all the other stuff I gotta do?"   
  
"The only thing you 'gotta' do right now is get well, Klinger. And that's gonna be hard enough without all that worrying. I know you can do it, because you're strong." He sighed. "You're very strong. That same thing might have killed someone not as strong... so I guess you're lucky, too."   
  
Klinger shrugged a little. "Yeah, I know that's what you tell all the patients. Guess it's true, though. I guess... the operation went well, too."   
  
Hawkeye nodded noncommitally. "Yeah, that too."   
  
"Jeez, it's funny now. You know that?"   
  
"What is?"   
  
"Last night, all I could think about, you know, besides the pain, was being mad."   
  
Hawkeye frowned. "Mad at who?"   
  
"Major Winchester. You know, for not helping me when I needed help. When I saw that he was going to do my surgery, I remember thinking, 'I don't trust him right now, and I wish to hell it was Hawkeye doing it instead.' I felt kind of dumb wishing that then... because as it turns out, he did help me. A lot. And, well... I guess I didn't have any right to wish that, I couldn't even help you when you needed light."  
  
Hawkeye gave Klinger a pained look and then sat down at his bedside. "Klinger, that wasn't your fault. I don't hold you responsible for that. It's the... damn army and the stupid rain that did it. You got hurt trying to help, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. It didn't work, but at least you're still alive. I'd really feel like a jerk if you got killed, you know. I still feel like a jerk, anyway."   
  
"What for?"   
  
Hawkeye smiled wanly. "Oh, plenty of reasons. I panicked in a situation that wasn't even a big deal. I yelled at everybody for no reason. I hurt a friend and wasn't able to help him. And on top of all that, my patient lost his leg because I didn't know when to quit. I've got lots of points added up toward my 3-day 'feel like a shit' pass, and I intend to take it right now."   
  
Klinger shook his head in shock. "Oh man... I... I'm sorry."   
  
"Yeah. Yeah, me too. As many times as it happens, as many times as I hear 'it would have never worked', or 'you did all you could', I still can't help feeling that if I'd just been a better doctor, things would be different. And now, it's true. It's completely true. If I had been a better doctor, this wouldn't have happened." He sighed.   
  
"You can't say that for sure." Klinger argued.  
  
"Of course I can." He stared into space for a second, then shrugged. "So, hey, you really are lucky. Really. I didn't even hear the whole story, but I want to, believe me. I gotta get rid of all this mail and then I'll be back and uh... you tell me all about it, okay?"   
  
He hastily got to his feet, picking up the bag and giving a little wave. Klinger slowly waved back and watched him disappear out the door.   
  
As one door closed, however, the other door opened, and Charles came in, curiously looking behind him at Hawkeye's retreating figure. "What was that all about?" He asked, letting the door shut behind him. "I thought he was delivering mail."   
  
"He is." Klinger answered. He held up the letter he'd received.   
  
"Ah, I see." Charles acknowledged the letter. "Pink stationery. My dear sister Honoria used to use pink stationery when writing to me from school. She would always use red sealing wax, stamping it with an 'H'."   
  
"Yeah? This is from my cousin Num Num. She seals her letters with electrical tape. See?"   
  
"Oh... yes." Charles gave an uncomfortable smile.  
  
"Ah, we used to have a lot of fun when we were kids. She doesn't write to me too often because I used to tell her I'd be coming home any day now. I don't think I've written to her since I stopped wearing a dress. She'd probably be really surprised if she found out."   
  
Charles didn't say anything for a few moments, and then he straightened his posture as if to leave. "Well, I just came by to... see how you are. I shall leave you alone if you wish."   
  
"Oh, hey, no. You don't have to leave. You're a doctor, I can't throw you out."   
  
"Very true." Charles took a look at Klinger's chart, humming quietly as he scanned the paper.  
  
"What? Hey, what does it say on there?"   
  
"Well, Klinger, it says that you are making remarkable progress." He looked up with a smile. "Not that you should have expected anything less, though. I have a nearly impeccable record for successful recoveries, and it seems you are no exception."   
  
"Oh."   
  
Charles replaced the chart with a snort of irritation. "Do be honest, how do you feel? Physically?"   
  
"I dunno, not so bad, I guess. They gave me something for the pain."  
  
"Mm-hmm. And... how about emotionally?" He asked.  
  
"Emotionally? Major, have you ever asked anyone that before?"   
  
"Why of course I have, Klinger. A physician's job goes beyond the physical. A person is not truly healthy unless they are spiritually healthy as well." Charles explained uncomfortably.   
  
"Isn't that Father Mulcahy's job?" He paused for a second. "I mean, since when do you really care that much about my emotional well-being?"   
  
Charles bristled at the implication and his eyes flashed with the same emotion he'd felt last night when Klinger looked so longingly at Hawkeye. He was silent for a moment, biting his tongue sullenly.   
  
"What...? I'm sorry... did I..." Klinger stumbled confusedly over the words.  
  
"Is it so uncharacteristic of me to be concerned about a friend who was hurt?" Charles asked quietly, looking away. "Yes, I suppose it is. Were it Colonel Potter, or Radar O'Reilly when he was here... or Hunnicutt or... or Pierce, you wouldn't question their concern for a moment. You would know it was sincere, and you would appreciate it for what it is; a friend caring about a friend. I suppose I must seem to have an ulterior motive, and to express any sort of emotion about your injury would be compromising my integrity, my very being would be threatened."   
  
Klinger opened his mouth to speak, but Charles put a hand in the air.  
  
"Please, Klinger, just allow me to finish. I understand that you didn't trust me last night, and you still don't today, if this is any indication. I understand that you would have felt safer having Pierce doing your surgery, and that no matter how well I did, you still trust him more than you do me. I imagine I can deal with that. Your opinion of me is of very little consequence. But I do wish to tell you that I was truly and completely worried for you last night." He chuckled a bit. "To quote a layman, you scared the hell out of me, and the thought of you dying was very... disagreeable to me. And if it will comfort your wounded soul any, I would have honestly done anything to ensure your safety."  
  
"You would have?"   
  
"Why, of course."   
  
Klinger shook his head with confusion, and Charles sighed. "You are the clouds, after all."   
  
The shock of remembering their conversation struck Klinger with a strange feeling, and he looked up with surprise. "You still think I am?"   
  
"Would Pierce be running about trying to do your job if that were not the case?"   
  
"You know, I kind of think maybe he's doing that because he feels responsible for getting me hurt. I might be wrong, but..."   
  
"Ironic. Both he and you share the same feeling of obligation toward each other."   
  
"Oh come on... Major, let's just set something straight for once, huh?" Klinger exclaimed. "It's not Hawkeye's fault, and I'm glad you did the surgery. I'm... really glad. I trust him a lot, and yeah, maybe you're right that I was wary of you last night, but that's because I was out of it... and I thought you weren't there to help me when I needed you. I was wrong, though, wasn't I?"   
  
Charles frowned. "What do you mean?"   
  
"When I was outside. Before I left, you said you'd make sure I got back in one piece. When it happened, though, I couldn't think of anything except the pain... and I didn't even recognize you. I thought you were someone else, so when I got inside, I thought you'd just left, and you didn't mean it when you said... that you'd make sure I was okay. But then, this morning, Major Houlihan said you were the one who brought me inside. Were you?"   
  
"Yes. Of course I was. There was no one else anywhere around."   
  
"Yeah. It might have been a long time before anyone came along. I probably could have died."   
  
Charles' eyes had a cocky, accomplished glow to them, and he leaned on one elbow over the bed railing. "Why, Klinger, I'm a doctor. It's my job to save lives."   
  
"Yeah... well... you know... thanks. Really."   
  
Neither one said anything more about it, and they found themselves locking their eyes together and smiling in a surprisingly companionable and affectionate manner, each one feeling things about the existance of the other that brought chills to the very surface of their skins.   
  
Finally, Charles demurely lowered his eyes, aware of the time that had passed and the very conspicuous lack of conversation. He cleared his throat and spoke with a stability in his voice that he was proud of.  
  
"I'll let you rest, and read your letter from... er... your relative."   
  
Klinger grinned. "Num Num, Major. Cousin Num Num."   
  
"Yes, of course."   
  
"Say, Major?"   
  
"Yes?"   
  
"....Come see me again. And again."  
  
"I'm your doctor, Klinger. You couldn't get rid of me even if you wanted to."   
  
"I don't want to."   
  
"Nor should I want you to." He smiled very genuinely and then strolled out the door, feeling a good deal better even than he had while he and Klinger were staring into each others' eyes.   
  
It was strange, he mused, how distance made the heart grow fonder.   
  
A moment later, he returned to post-op, where he would remain for the rest of the morning.   
  
To hell with distance.   
  
***   
  
~Two Weeks Later~  
  
"Good evening, beautiful!" Hawkeye exclaimed as he walked in the door of the Officers Club, narrowly missing the exit of a young nurse who had had her fill of mediocre drinks and even more mediocre conversation and was retreating to her tent for the night.   
  
"Oh, Hi Hawkeye..." She said, smiling demurely. "How are you?"   
  
"Gorgeous AND makes great conversation. How can I be sure you aren't a booby trap?"   
  
She rolled her eyes at his unintentional pun and put her hands on her hips. "Hey, Hawkeye, you gave my mail to Nurse Swanson by mistake this morning. You've been at this for two weeks now, and you still don't have it down?"   
  
"Hey, now that's really not my fault. Igor only finally let me come near your tent on Thursday. The way he acted, you'd think I was unscrupulous!"   
  
"Well, try and remember from now on, wouldja? You wouldn't believe the gossip that's spreading after Christine read the letter from my fiance back home. I'm the laughing stock of the showers!"   
  
"You want me to come defend your honor? I'm very good at that sort of thing. Just give me a date and a time, I'll show up 3 hours early. You never know who might decide to shower before her... that I might also need to have a talk with."   
  
She rolled her eyes. "Goodnight, Hawkeye."   
  
"I'll bring a camera! Catch them in the act!" He called after her. "Let me know if you reconsider!"   
  
Shrugging, he passed through the door into the smoky, badly lit OC, scanning the room for anybody of interest. Before he was able to sit down at a spot at the bar, he heard a familiar voice calling to him.   
  
"Hey, Hawkeye!"   
  
He followed the sound of the voice, and saw Klinger, dressed in patients' pajamas and a shower cap, gesturing to him with his hand. He had been ambulatory since the 72 hour tetanus risk had passed, and despite the fact that the injury hadn't yet healed itself, he often took advantage of whoever was around and used them as his own personal chauffeur around the camp. Because Potter had insisted that he only do the absolute minimum that was required of him until he was completely healed, he spent a few hours in his office and the rest of the time bothering whoever happened to be handy.   
  
Hawkeye noted with amused interest that more and more often, "whoever happened to be handy" was Charles, and more and more often he'd hear the two of them seated in the mess tent, engaged in some sort of dispute or other. Sometimes they even spoke civilly to each other, although it wasn't often. Still, though, as often as they argued, Charles was still often the one to push him around in his wheelchair, sometimes even going outside with him and watching the sunset. Hawkeye found it rather amusing that they were so fond of each other's company, so he was more than happy to seat himself at the table with Klinger, because a moment later, Charles returned and took a seat strangely close to the wheelchair.  
  
"I don't know when I've seen such bitter service. The man acts as though just because he delivers mail in the morning, he's exempt from any sort of duties the rest of the day." He sighed and then noticed Hawkeye sitting across from him. "Oh, Hawkeye. I'm sorry, I didn't notice you."   
  
"Not to worry, Charles. But take it easy on Igor, I think he threw his back out delivering that tape from your sister this morning. Klinger, not to rush you along, but I can't wait until you're back on your feet." Hawkeye said.  
  
Klinger grinned and gave a sideways glance at Charles. "Oh, I don't know. I think I'll miss being a patient... having to walk all over the place? I have to admit, I'm gonna miss Jeeves here. He's really great at pushing a guy around."   
  
Charles gave him a look of shock and Hawkeye smiled. "Of course he is, that's how the Winchesters made their fortune. Pushing guys around."   
  
"Pierce, your input is just as welcome as always." Charles said snidely.   
  
"Charles, nothing you say tonight is going to ruin my good mood. They sent Private Williams home today, home to his wife and 2 sons and their lovely home in Idaho."   
  
"Private Williams... is he..." Klinger began, and Hawkeye nodded.   
  
"Yeah. You know, I have to tell you, I've never seen anybody so happy to go home in my life. I mean, aside from me, whenever that may be. Boy... he was really something... I don't even think it would be possible for him to be angry.. I mean, at anybody. For anything. He was just happy to be alive... so happy, just to be alive. It was amazing to watch." He shrugged. "Made me feel pretty dumb. Do you ever get the feeling that God invented war just for that purpose... to make us feel dumb?"   
  
"Nah. Generals aren't capable of feeling dumb. They're too dumb to know they're too dumb to feel dumb, so they fight wars to try and convince themselves they're not as dumb as they don't think they are." Klinger said.   
  
Hawkeye shook his head. "Now that may just be the best explanation anyone's ever given for why wars are started. Klinger, they should give you a medal. Or a Section 8."   
  
"No thanks, Captain... I actually think I'd fight one now. Maybe that means I really am nuts. Or, I have another reason." He smiled coyly at Charles.   
  
Hawkeye narrowed his eyes and smiled mischievously. "You know, it might just be my imagination, but... are you two... taking more liberties than should be covered by the typical doctor/patient relationship?"   
  
Charles' eyes darted up, and he realized that his hand had been tenderly placed over Klinger's. Quickly, he pulled it away and put on his best "I don't know what you're talking about" smile. "Why, Pierce...."   
  
"Oh, come on, Charles. I'll tell you my secret if you tell me yours."   
  
"Do you mean about you and Hunnicutt? We know all about it, Pierce." Charles answered.  
  
Hawkeye's smile disappeared, and he looked suspiciously at both men. "'WE'? WE, Charles? You told him?!"   
  
Klinger looked up, a pouty smile on his face. "We have no secrets from each other! Do we, Pooky?" He poked Charles' shoulder and giggled. "Huh, Pooky? Hey, you're supposed to say, 'absolutely not, Muffy-bear.' Come on, 'absolutely not--'"  
  
"You are drunk." Charles muttered, blushing furiously.   
  
"I could never drink enough of your crystal blue depths, my darling...." Klinger sang rather loudly. "Besides, that's not what you said last night in the X-ray lab."   
  
"Boy, are you lucky we're in a bar, Charles. And you're lucky he's Klinger and not someone else, or this would be all over the camp." Hawkeye laughed, terribly amused at the bizarre sight before him. "Hey, I think it's cute. I admit, I've had improper thoughts about him, too. Ungentlemanly, if you will. Of course, now I save all those thoughts for someone else... someone I've never seen in a dress."   
  
"You could remedy that, don't you think?" Klinger asked.   
  
"Both of you, please!" Charles exclaimed.   
  
"No thanks, Charles. I'm a one-guy kind of guy. It's nothing personal." Hawkeye giggled.   
  
"You are simply impossible." Charles moaned. "And you... I spend my valuable time carting you around the camp like a servant, and all you can do is humiliate me with gratuitous public displays of drunken tomfoolery!"   
  
Klinger shrugged. "Guilty as charged."   
  
"As soon as you are back at work full time, I demand a three-day leave. I don't care to what lengths you are forced to go, but after all this, I deserve no less."  
  
"Three whole days? Don't I get to come with?" Klinger asked.  
  
"Yeah, Charles. You can't go off and leave him here all alone. He'll be starved for affection and throw himself into the arms of some buff marine named 'Biff'."   
  
"Oh, Klinger... you... you can drive me to the airport." Charles said sympathetically.   
  
"Yeah, well let me warn you... it might take a long, long time to get to that airport." Klinger said deviously.  
  
"Oh? How long?"   
  
"...Three days."   
  
~FIN~  
  
Ended 19 Aug 2003 22:40 


End file.
